


A Wholly Remarkable Book

by ExiledDuke (PersonalSpin)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash (if you squint), Prompt Fic, sick!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:12:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonalSpin/pseuds/ExiledDuke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds out that a sick and tired Sherlock is a Sherlock that's hard to refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wholly Remarkable Book

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/16422.html?thread=96875302#t96875302) on the kinkmeme. With apologies to Douglas Adams.

“John.”  
  
John looked up from his book and took in the sight of Sherlock Holmes standing by the entrance to his bedroom with a look of abject misery on his face. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose was leaking something vile, and he'd spent the whole day in a swoon on the sofa so that now his hair was sticking up on one side. Illness clearly did not agree with Sherlock; John had already resigned himself to listening to him torture his violin into the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep even if he'd been inclined to but not able to run off and solve crime either. But it wasn’t even gone ten-thirty yet and he looked so tired and pathetic, and he'd said his name so plaintively, that John's irritation immediately melted into sympathy.  
  
“Yes, Sherlock? Do you need something?”  
  
Sherlock took this as an invitation to come in and summarily flumped onto the unoccupied side of John's bed with his usual melodrama, just like he'd done that morning on the sofa. He twisted his head—probably smearing John's sheets with whatever was dripping from his nose—to glare at him like that was a stupid question. It likely was, in hindsight.  
  
“John, I'm sick,” he croaked.  
  
John sighed, putting his book down on his lap as he feared it was going to be one of _those_ conversations—the ones where Sherlock was deliberately obtuse and _he_ was the one that came out of it looking like an idiot.  
  
“That's what happens when you run around London in December, in the rain.”  
  
“An excellent deduction but somewhat irrelevant now.”  
  
John drew aside his duvet to get out of bed. “I've got some paracetamol somewhere, and I can make you tea, but there's not much I can really do about a common cold.”  
  
Sherlock flung his arm out in a pathetic effort to pin him to the bed, and John sat back down again. He turned to look at him, but Sherlock had turned his head aside, keeping himself, as ever, inscrutable. “I'm fully aware of the limits of medicine,” he grumbled, “but that's not what I wanted.”  
  
“What is it you wanted, then?”  
  
“Read to me.”  
  
John blinked. “I'm sorry, what?”  
  
Sherlock huffed in irritation, but his arm didn't move, lying like a dead weight across John's waist. “Don't be boring, John. I asked you to read to me.”  
  
“What, as in now?”  
  
“Yes.” John breathed in deeply, but he was being obstinate and didn’t move. Sherlock was clearly pretty miserable right now, and exasperated that his own body was incapable of being the perfect host for his brilliant brain and breaking down over something as _mundane_ as a cold. The least he could do was humour him—not that he didn't usually anyway.  
  
John released the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding as a sigh. “Alright Sherlock, I'll read to you.”  
  
Sherlock busied himself burying into the sheets of his bed, twisting and turning so much that John had to rescue his book from his lap before it got flung across the room. Sherlock settled, but not before he had the larger part of the duvet wrapped around himself. He sighed contentedly, and John couldn't help smiling at him.  
  
“Got any preferences? For your bedtime story?”  
  
“I don't mind.”  
  
John arched an eyebrow but took him at his word, lifting up his book and reading from where he'd been interrupted.  
  
“ _...Arthur stared into his beer._  
  
 _'Did I do something wrong today,' he said, 'or has the world always been like this and I've been too wrapped up in myself to notice?'_  
  
 _'All right,' said Ford, 'I'll try to explain. How long have we known each other?'_  
  
 _'How long?' Arthur thought. 'Er, about five years, maybe six,' he said. 'Most of it seemed to make some sense at the time.'_  
  
 _'All right,' said Ford. 'How would you react if I said that I'm not from Guildford after all, but from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse?_ '“  
  
Sherlock snorted, and John looked up to give him an arch look, but his eyes were closed and he remained blissfully unaware. “This book is ridiculous,” he said quietly.  
  
“I quite like it myself,” John said and Sherlock hummed deeply. He wasn't quite sure how to interpret that, but it was probably a comment on his taste and intelligence.  
  
“Stop staring at me and continue reading. Please,” Sherlock said, still without opening his eyes.  
  
“ _'—a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse?'_  
  
 _Arthur shrugged in a so-so sort of way._  
  
 _'I don't know, he said, taking a pull of beer. 'Why--do you think it's the sort of thing you're likely to say?'_  
  
 _Ford gave up. It really wasn't worth bothering at the moment, what with the world being about to end. He just said: 'Drink up.'_  
  
 _He added, perfectly factually: 'The world's about to end.'_ ”  
  
Sherlock made a quiet noise, probably without meaning to, and burrowed deeper into his cocoon of sheets.  
  
“It's OK if you want to fall asleep here,” John said and he hummed again, making it clear permission hadn't been sought. “Do you want me to stop reading so you can sleep?”  
  
“No, keep going,” Sherlock murmured. “You're doing so well, don't stop now.”  
  
“ _...Arthur gave the rest of the pub another wan smile. The rest of the pub frowned at him. A man waved at him to stop smiling at them and mind his own business._  
  
 _'This must be Thursday,' said Arthur musing to himself, sinking low over his beer, 'I never could get the hang of Thursdays.'_ “  
  
John lowered his book again, because he was fairly certain at that point that Sherlock was snoring softly, fast asleep on his bed and wrapped up in his sheets. He sighed, not without fondness, and reached over to place the book on his nightstand and turn off the lamp.  
  
The only way he was going to get any of his duvet back was if he wrestled them from him—and John was disinclined to do that when Sherlock looked so peaceful, his Cupid’s bow lips slightly parted and relaxed in sleep. He contented himself with what little he could get by curling up next to him, so close that his breath stirred the curls resting on Sherlock's forehead.  
  
The arm around his waist shifted, drawing him closer. “You are... completely ridiculous, you do know that?” John said. “We can talk about your liking the sound of my voice in the morning.” And then, just because he could, he kissed Sherlock on the brow. He was certain he heard him murmur something in response—Sherlock always had to have the final word in everything and John let him, choosing instead to lay an arm over his waist in return and get some sleep himself.


End file.
